To Start Again
by Calico45
Summary: Five years ago, Arthur Kirkland's son ran away from home. Three years ago, he got a cat to help fill the void. Even so, with each passing day that his son is gone he withdraws further away from people. Little does he know that his new cat, Hero, is trying to help him move on and his reason for doing so is because he has a special connection with Alfred.
1. Chapter 1

To Start Again

Chapter 1, Window Sill

If anyone was asked the question of what he or she would be doing in three years' time the answer would probably be something generic like having a family, finding the love of his or her life, going to school, or the grand favorite of "I don't know." However, not a person on this list would probably admit that he or she would end up living back with his or her parents. Or, in Alfred's case, parent. His father, Arthur Kirkland, specifically. He had gone through all the trouble to leave the controlling man's house as soon as he could, and now he was back. And that was not even the real kicker: he was a fluffy, white fur ball of a cat. Who could predict that he or she would one day end up living back home _as the family pet_? Strictly inside only, to boot. Irony had nothing on Alfred. Or was it Hero now? Regardless, he was still a cat, living in his father's house, which did nothing but stare out the window for three whole years.

In fact, that was what he was doing right now. He was perched on his favorite window sill in the second story hallway that overlooked the bay and the city beyond that. It was the same scenery that he saw all day every day, with the same annoying birds that could not keep their mouths shut, merely at noon now, and yet his tail still twitched at the sight. It may have been his hunting instincts that started his tail twitching, but it was his annoyance that continued it, and before he could do much otherwise he sighed what was probably the deepest sigh he had in a long time. So this was life now?

Alfred had always been an active, outgoing, and outdoorsy person—pretty much the exact opposite of his father, a practically agoraphobic home author which was shier than he cared to admit. That had always led to more than a few disagreements between them, and now it resulted in what Alfred considered to be extreme mental decay. He was a cat for goodness sake. How was he supposed to keep his still very human mind from regressing without some sort of stimulation other than this forsaken window? If that was not enough, he wanted to go outside for some purely selfish reasons as well. For one, he had been born a feral cat and suddenly being trapped in a house full time two years later had been quite an adjustment. Another thing was that he wanted _friends_. Alfred was not sure if his father knew what those were anymore by the looks of his increasingly isolationist behavior, but he sure did, and the neighboring cats could fill that very empty void he had. Did he mention that he had not had an intelligent conversation in years? He was sick of being meowed at by humans who did not have a clue what he was saying to them. He had cussed a few people out that just continued to meow pathetically at him. That had been such a weird experience that he had almost went into hysterics.

Yet, none of this mattered very much in the current situation, seeing that he could not get out if he tried—and he had tried. Oh, how he had tried! His first whole year in this house had been about escaping it once again. He tried everything from running out the door when his father opened it, which was lessening more and more, to slipping out the windows, to pretending to be ill so he would have to be taken to the vet. None of these instances seemed to ever end very well, and all due to one very stubborn Arthur Kirkland. He seemed quite insistent that he would not lose yet another thing in his life and had always taken every precaution against Alfred's escapes, learning from his attempts, and always keeping a firm grip on him when he had to.

Once the second year began, Alfred began to scale back his escape attempts. Originally, the idea was to analyze the situation in order to develop the ultimate scheme, but in the process he started to realize something. Why on Earth was he here back in this very house? It was one heck of a coincidence, if you ask him. So that meant that he was bound to be here for a reason, right? He had been so shocked to be back in this house that he had not observed his father much the first year, he had to confess, but he quickly learned that the man had not gotten over the fact that Alfred had left. If anything, he was worsening by the day if his antisocial ways were anything to go by. So that led to Alfred's epiphany: he was put into this furry, little body to help his father move on with his life. Of course, knowing why he was there was only step one. He actually had to change the man, as a cat, that he could never get anywhere with when he could actually communicate properly. Fate was most certainly cruel.

One thing that could not be said was that Alfred did not try. He gave it a valiant effort throughout the whole second year. He did everything he could think of, even locking his father out once. He dialed random numbers, known enemies and friends of the man's alike, even the pizza boy every so often. Then he destroyed furniture, clothes, blankets, quickly learning that it was walls and flooring that got service employees there. He even desperately mauled the windows whenever people passed by, sometimes with either whipped cream or ketchup all over him just trying to get someone to be curious enough to ring the doorbell. It had all been in vain because his father just continued to progress on the path of a recluse. His editor was not much help in the matter, either. The woman seemed to rather like having her author where she always knew he would be. Worse yet, she was nearly all business and did not serve to socialize the man very much. Whenever Alfred could he would bite her heels in retaliation.

His third year in the house had been one of retrospection, and not just on his life as a cat. Every inch of the house was suddenly dripping with memories that he had blocked out so long ago, both good and bad. He found that his two years as a cat in that house matched hand in hand with his years as a human there. He had his years that all he wanted to do was help and be with his father, and then the years that all he wanted to do was leave. In both scenarios he would throw himself into whatever he was doing, living in the moment, and not once take a step back and look at where he had come from or where he was going. He supposed that was how he ended up in this predicament in the first place, but he still could not make himself regret his actions. He doubted he ever could.

Now that his fourth year was here, what exactly was he supposed to do? He tried to leaved, tried to fix his father's life, finally took that step back and analyzed his life, so what was left? He was still not any closer to any of his goals, seeing as he was still perched in the same window sill and his father was still cooped up in same study. So, really, what was left? That was the question that could do nothing but torment him as the birds continued to chatter as they did every day and he listened to the faint tap-tap-tapping of what had to be his father's laptop. It was going to be yet another boring day in his abnormal, but very boring now feline life. Hurrah.

_Gruuuuuumble_!

Alfred huffed, listening to his stomach rumble. He had gotten so caught up in his misery that he had forgotten to go bother the man that was equally at fault in this for food. Normally he would not have to do this. If he waited long enough, his father would have enough sense to fill up his bowl with crunchy pellets, which were slowly killing Alfred's love of food, when he fixed his own breakfast. However, when he had been up all night with a stirring of inspiration or for a deadline, or if Alfred was just feeling sweet or especially hungry and chose to wake him up, he would lose track of the time and neglect his pet. He had at least been a little more on top of things when he knew it was his son depending on him. Apparently a pet was not nearly so important. Alfred snorted at that one its own. If he was not so important now he should have been let out to at least be able to catch a mouse or something, if that was just a beginning to describe how bad dry cat food was. Well, he guessed it could be worse. His father could still be trying to feed him his toxic creations. That was a plus, or would be if Arthur had not branched out into pet treats for certain occasions.

Seeing as his thoughts were getting him nowhere, Alfred banished them to the back of his mind. He could brood later, breakfast, or lunch in all actuality, now. He slipped down from the window sill with ease, landing with a soft thump on all four paws. From there he followed the railing which bordered the side of the hall overlooking the stairs and the front door below. Past the stairs he followed the sound of typing to the obscure room also on the second floor, his father's study. Alfred had a spell of luck when he came upon the room to find that the door was cracked. Using his paw skillfully, he was able to open it enough to slip inside without so much as a sound. Of course, even if he had been an elephant doing as much, he doubted that Arthur would notice. When he was writing the man would zone out to the point of not hearing whether or not a bomb went off. As a testament to that, unlike the rest of his house, Arthur's study had always looked like a warzone. The curse of creativity he always claimed. The result of that curse was that stacks of books, documents, and other nick-knacks, would often find themselves in natural landslides or avalanches depending, and more often the man would not notice a thing until he was finished. That meant that the odds were not in his favor for getting to eat that day.

Nevertheless, Alfred approached the blonde man cautiously. He could remember many a times that he had awoken the slumbering beast from his trance that had not ended so well for him. Still, it was this or go back to the window sill hungry, and he was not sure if he wanted to go back to the window sill even with a full stomach. As Alfred got closer and started crossing into the danger zone he took a moment to observe his father's condition. When he got into these spells he would neglect himself most of all, and that had not changed from when Alfred had been human. Neither did that fact that he wore glasses, only when he was working. The prescription lenses were real, so Alfred never understood why he did not wear them anywhere other than his study. It made him wonder if he would have had to get glasses one day. Once he looked Arthur over and then his surroundings, the detective work was done. Alfred's conclusion: he needed a hot shower, a nice meal, and some sleep, then repeat until it was like he was fresh off the shelf again. He doubted that would happen anytime soon, but he could at least remind the man to eat.

"Feed me!" Alfred commanded in his feline tongue, not at all surprised when the typing continued unperturbed, "Come on. It isn't that hard, you have been doing it for years. And eat something yourself for that matter. Aren't you supposed to be the adult here?"

Arthur did not so much as hesitate, and it was getting on Alfred's nerves, even if he had expected as much. He debated on sinking his teeth into one of the legs in his reach, betting that would get a reaction, but curbed his impulse. Contrary to popular belief, he did not hate his father, and though that was about as much as he was willing to admit to himself at the moment it meant that he took no pleasure in harming him unjustly.

"Hello!"

But some kind of painful retribution was beginning to seem more and more just by the minute.

"Fine then, don't look down." he huffed, starting to crouch.

After a moment of calculating the best angle and adjusting himself, he was airborne. His flight did not last more than a couple of seconds, but they would probably be the highlight of his day. He was still as much of an adrenaline junkie as always. His calculations were spot on, namely from practice, and he landed all four paws on Arthur's keyboard. That got the man's attention, especially as the whiskered beast sat back to cover all the keys and began to stare expectantly at him. If Arthur did not know any better he would think that his pet was trying to appear unamused. Well, neither was Arthur.

The man's emerald eyes narrowed on the offending animal, "Well good day to you, too, Hero. You want to try your hand at becoming an author, I see."

The cat snorted.

"But if you would, I am awfully busy. Go play or something—"

_Growl_!

Alfred's eyes lightened as Arthur started turning red. That had not been his furry stomach this round. Arthur, in his flustered state, began flail about a bit and in the process managed to catch sight of the time. Not only did his blush go away, but he paled.

"This late already? There is no way you could have eaten—I'm so sorry, Hero." Arthur rambled, quickly bolting from his seat.

Alfred could hear him running all the way downstairs and into the kitchen. Alfred sighed, before his lips curled into something of a feline smile. Although this had happened more than once, he could truly say that his father had been genuinely sorry each time, and each time he could not make himself stay mad. He supposed that old habits die hard.

Carefully, he removed himself from the keyboard as not to mess up whatever his father had been writing, and he followed him downstairs. By the time he had actually made it to the kitchen, his bowl was already full and Arthur was working on his own meal. The man immediately took notice of his appearance.

"What took you so long? You have to be hungry. Are you feeling ill?" he asked worriedly.

Alfred had one of those recurring moments where he wanted to laugh at the man for sounding like he expected an intelligent response, though he would have done just about anything do that very thing. However, Alfred merely meowed. This meow was not a "yes" or a "no" in his feline tongue, but merely a simple, unsymbolic vocalization that he had learned to perform from years of frustratingly one-sided conversations. Arthur had yet to catch on.

"I am glad that is not the case, but I will be watching you just in case. We can go to the vet whenever you need to." he assured, doing various kitchen activities that reminded Alfred more of alchemy than cooking.

Alfred shuddered, at both the words and actions, which only motivated him to eat so there would be no reason to visit the vet. The moment the first kibble crunched in his mouth he debated risking the visit, however. He had been eating the same dry food for three whole years now and it had not once gotten any better. He vaguely remembered a time when he could actually taste it about the first week he was here. He had hated it then, but now it was air that crunched. Would it really kill Arthur to buy him some canned food from time to time, or at least leave a can of tuna out on the counter? It did not even have to be open. Alfred was resourceful, he could find a way.

"Hero, do you remember what today is?" Arthur quizzed, still elbow deep in what was supposed to be cooking.

Alfred paused in eating his crunchy air. Today? Wednesday, he supposed. Dates had never been his thing and they mattered even less as a cat then they did as a human. He could check a calendar if he really had to, but as far as he was concerned it was another normal Wednesday for the most part.

A small smile warped Arthur's lips, "Today makes three whole years since you have been here, lad. Happy birthday."

Alfred blinked. He supposed it was the anniversary of when his father had obtained him, and the man had thus dubbed it his birthday. Still, Alfred could not really think of it as such even three years later. As far as he was concerned, his birthday was still the fourth of July, the day that everyone set off fireworks for both America and him alike as he had always said. He wanted to celebrate it then, but he would take what he could.

"I will have to bake you some treats later today,"—Alfred's hair raised—"And I even got you a present."

The cat perked up at that, losing all interest in the kibble within his bowl. It was all air anyway.

Arthur's smile grew as he saw his cat's undivided attention, "It is nothing extravagant now, so do not get your hopes up, and you will not be getting a thing until you have eaten and I have made a little more progress on my manuscript."

Arthur's grin widened even further as his feline skulked back to his bowl. Hero had always been such a character, even when he had first got him. In fact, that was why he had given the cat such a name. Because he reminded him so much of—Arthur shook his head fiercely. It was no time to be thinking of something like that. Today was a day to celebrate. Nevertheless, he had to keep reminding himself of that all throughout breakfast. He was truly grateful for Hero's distractions even when all the food was gone from his bowl. Arthur had contemplated filling it up again just to keep him around, but it pleased him greatly when he realized that he did not have to. The animated fur ball even stole on of his house slippers in one of his games. Arthur naturally chased after him, thankfully finished eating by that point.

It took a while for Arthur to find just where Hero had gone and he had traipsed the entire house in his pursuit. It was the last place he looked, his own bedroom, where he saw the missing slipper placed atop the covers of his pristine bed. Not quite believing it would be so easy, Arthur scanned the room for the mischievous feline. He really had to give it to Hero at times, the cat was smart, and the last thing he wanted was to fall for yet another trap. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he approached the shoe cautiously. When nothing happened, even when he grabbed it, he finally sat down to finally place it back on his foot. Before he could even raise said foot, the cat was square on his lap.

Arthur blinked in surprise, "What game are you playing at?"

Hero meowed softly, turning a couple of time before ultimately curling up in his lap. Arthur could not help but somewhat fidget. He had things he had to do and Hero could sleep anywhere. Then again, it was also the animal's birthday. Even if Hero was not aware of such, it was still sentimental to himself. Arthur sighed, realizing that he would be too guilt ridden to get anything done anyway if he forced the cat of his lap.

"You win, Hero. Are you happy?" Arthur asked, falling back onto his bed.

It was only several minutes later, when Arthur was snoring softly that the cat answered, "Why yes, I am."

Alfred could not help but laugh to himself as he carefully crawled out of his father's lap to get a better look at him. The man had really needed the sleep and it showed. A part of Alfred wanted to fetch a blanket for him, but the other said that would be breaking the mold for feline intelligence and he had done enough to not feel guilty. In the end, the latter half won out and he quietly left the man's bedroom.

Now what? He had done his good deed for the day, eaten, and had another one-sided conversation. Back to the window sill then? The mere thought made Alfred wonder if there was a precedent for feline suicides. He was sure there was, even if their owners were too stupid to realize it. Alfred was not sure where Arthur would fall on such a scale, but he did not hesitate to believe that the man would start forcing mood stabilizing pills down his throat, prescribed by his dear friend, the vet, if he started acting even slightly strange. No feline suicide today, not unless he knew it would work.

Not that he wanted to die, of course. He had debated that when he had first became a cat, and again when he became Arthur's pet. Both times he realized he was grateful to be alive, cat or not. That did not mean that he always enjoyed life, human or feline, but the times that he did were enough. Still, faced with the window sill once more it was a rather tempting option.

_Bring_._ Bring_._ Bring_!

Alfred huffed, hearing Arthur starting to shift about on his bed already. He just got the man to sleep. Who would be calling him anyway? Alfred meandered back into Arthur's bedroom in time to watch him hustle to reach the outdated phone on his nightstand. Really, who had a landline anymore? Alfred stood his ground in the middle of the room, watching with an annoyed face but listening intently. As good as his hearing was, he could not make out what was being said by the person on the other end, but he could tell Arthur was getting more and more overwhelmed. Was the editor moving up his deadlines again?

"B-but you are sure right?"

Sure? About what?

"Have you found anything else—Any kind of lead?"

Alfred began to feel dread settling in his stomach.

"I can be out there as quickly as humanly possible—Yes, yes I understand that was years ago and I intend to let you do your job, but—"

This could not be happening.

"JUST LISTEN TO ME! My son has been missing for five years and this is the first word of anything of his being found. Excuse me if I get a little worked up! I-I need to find him, so just keep me updated, okay?"

Alfred watched as he returned the phone to its proper place and then buried his face into his hands.

"Oh, Alfred…Where are you?" he whispered softly.

Alfred could not bring himself to leave his father, but he could make himself go up to him either. He knew before the soft sniveling began that the man was crying and it pained him for different reasons. Part of him wanted to tell him that he was there, right in front of him, and had been there for three years. The other part wanted nothing more than to tell Arthur not to waste his tears anymore, because the Alfred he knew was gone forever. Five years ago, that Alfred died and was reborn as the cat he was today, forever a shell of his former self. For that very reason, he felt like he never should have been with his father ever again, because he was an imposter and Arthur deserved the real thing. Suddenly the window sill did not look so bad anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

To Start Again

Chapter 2, The Present

Alfred was annoyed. No, not because Arthur had forgotten everything because of the phone call and put off work and his birthday alike. No, not because once the man realized it he promised to dedicate the whole next day to him and cook him a feast. And no, not because the only worse feeling than his hunger from not getting another serving of crunchy air was what he felt when he heard his father crying. He was annoyed because of his so called _present_. This was not _his _present, it was even debatable whether it was a present at all in Alfred's mind, but _Arthur's_ present. Said present was no other than one of those tacky Christmas sweaters. One would think that he would have been immune from such things as a cat, he had, but no, there were feline everything apparently. Curse the internet and all its delivery services. Curse them, Arthur, and the photographer that was coming by the house the next day. What, he could not even put his agoraphobia on hold for one day, the day he promised to dedicate to Alfred for forgetting about him, to actually take him to the studio? Nope, all the embarrassment in the comfort of his own home. And why a Christmas sweater in May for that matter? He had heard of Christmas in July, but no one was going to be celebrating in this house in July.

In light of everything, Alfred found himself unmoving from middle of the living room floor. It was already the offending day of the photo shoot and Arthur was running around like a madman to try and make sure that he and his home were presentable for company. At least that meant Alfred had not been shoved into Arthur's present yet. However, he had found another thing to wrench his stomach instead. In the living room there was a fireplace and on its mantel there were pictures of all of their family. In fact, they decorated the entire room and served to show why "living room" and "family room" were synonymous. They were arranged under Arthur's scrutinizing eyes to make sure they looked uncluttered and organized, as always, but the photos on the mantle were different than they had been in Alfred's childhood for the sole reason that all _his _photos were gone. Alfred could honestly say that he was not in a single photo in the entire living room, not even in cat form, and now the mantle looked almost bare.

Admittedly, Alfred was not realizing this for the first time. In fact, it was one of the first things that he had noticed when he had first come back to this place, and it served to light his fire for leaving once more. If the man cared so little—Well, he knew where he was not wanted! Only, that turned out to not exactly be the case. As time progressed, around the middle of the second year, he found all the missing photos, trophies, and any memorabilia connected to himself preserved in air tight containers in the attic. He had been going through Arthur's stuff to come up with yet another plan to force him and people together, but when he was caught Arthur went ballistic for more reason than one. The man had ended up locking himself in his bedroom for the rest of the day at the mere sight of the articles, and Alfred learned why his things had been removed. At the realization, he could make himself angry anymore and merely accepted that he would be absent from the family photos from that point on. In that sense, he was kind of happy to be having the photographer coming in, but if his sense of being an imposter did not ruin that the Christmas sweater sure did. Speaking of the sweater—

"Hero?"

It was time.

"There you are." Arthur observed, grabbing up the feline before it had a chance to run away, "Try not to be too difficult today, will you? This is very important."

"No promises." Alfred huffed, not even bothering to struggle.

He would need his energy for later.

_Knock_. _Knock_. _Knock_.

"Coming!" Alfred cried, and from there it was a blur.

Alfred could remember bits and pieces, some that he would rather not, like being shoved into the sweater and being positioned in front of the camera. One thing that Alfred did want to know was just how many pictures Arthur had ordered, because the photographer took a million shots _per pose_. And he was repositioned quite a bit. One thing that had made him a little smug was that the photographer constantly commented on his unique coat and how beautiful it was. Alfred was solid white except for his bushy, black tail and a black ruff around his neck reminiscent of a lion's mane. He also had some light, black circles under his eyes, but they were barely noticeable. However, the one thing that the photographer loved so much was his eyes that were as blue as the sky. He had specifically said that he was not sure what type of crossbreed Hero was to have the coat of a Maine Coon and the eyes of Siamese, but he was utterly gorgeous. Alfred could not help but try to show off like the little model he was at the praise.

Once the photographer was out the door Arthur nearly fell over laughing, clutching his sides desperately. Apparently he had been holding it in the entire time the photos were being taken and he was finally at his limit as he slid down the door to the floor. Alfred was waiting for him there with a look that would frighten away demons. Who had been the one that had forced this on him after all? Alfred could not soften his glare at the man if a pillow had been in front of his face.

Once Arthur noticed, and wiped a tear away, he raised his hands in surrender, "I a-am sorry, Hero. I am not laughing at you, I swear, but that man—Ha ha! I searched around online to find someone passionate about their work and he is a professional pet photographer, the one that does so many of those cat calendars everyone buys. I knew he would do a good job, but that was really something. He would not stop complimenting you and even said that he would like to have you be in his next calendar!"

Arthur broke back into laughter and while Alfred still glared, it had softened some. Maybe he had been so freaking beautiful that the man just could not help himself, had Arthur thought of that? Besides, he liked the idea of being in those cat calendars. For the most part the models were not forced to wear silly things. Speaking of which, Alfred was still in the detested sweater.

_Flop_!

The noise brought Arthur back to his senses only to throw him into another laughing fit. Alfred had gotten so sick of his sweater that he just fell over onto his side, not willing to take another step in the constricting garment, twitching his tail in annoyance all the while. He had been suppressing the urge all day and he had finally had it. It was about time that somebody, cough cough, Arthur, freed him already.

"H-Hero, don't you dare act like it is so horrible now!"—the man had to cover his mouth in another fit of laughter—"I s-saw you posing for the camera you little diva. You like the attention, admit it."

Alfred huffed. So what if he did? He always had and was the first to confess to being an attention whore, but he still had morals. That had not changed, five years and one cat body later.

"Not that there is anything wrong with that." Arthur assured, finally getting a handle on himself and speaking rather normally, "I have dealt with plenty of divas in my life, the only thing is that they do not tend to stay very long…"

Alfred felt the jab right in his chest. He knew he was not the only person his father was talking about, but he certainly added to it. He had ended up just like his mother in the end. Alfred blinked. He really had, had he not? He ended up just like the woman that broke his father's heart and left him to raise a son all alone. That was a hard pill to swallow. In fact, it was his mother that—

"Well, it is time that I finally get you something to eat, right, Hero?"

All of Alfred's thoughts shattered as Arthur got up and started walking to the kitchen. How had he forgotten about the feast right out of the deepest, darkest pits of Hell? For all he knew his father summoned it from there without realizing it. He had plenty of black magic books and wrote mounds of supernatural stories, it was possible.

"Do you have any preferences, Hero?" Arthur called, moving pots and pans out of their usual resting places.

"Yeah, pizza." Alfred suggested, keeping a proper distance, "_Order out _pizza."

Arthur smiled at him kindly, "I know, a birthday is not a birthday without cake."

"That is _not _pizza!" Alfred wailed in desperation, but it was too late.

It should be said here and now that Arthur loved cooking, probably more than he loved writing. In fact, he had gone to culinary school long, long ago. However, he could never make a living doing such a thing, so he had found sanctuary in another hobby of his, and that was how he had become an author. The point to be made here is that because he loved the two so much, there are similarities between them: aka, the trance he enters. A bomb could go off and he would not stop cooking, that Alfred knew for certain. He had tried with a soda-mentos bomb in his youth. That was just the tip of the iceberg in all of the variety of things he had tried to prevent the birth of Arthur's Frankenstein-like creations, and at the end of every one he either could not do a thing or ended up encouraging the madman's hobby by eating it, with a forced smile, under the threat of tears. Memories, indeed.

Alfred shuddered as Arthur started running about the kitchen to get ingredient after ingredient. More often than not, they seemed normal enough, but every now and then he would slip in a strange one, Alfred knew, and despite that he still could not pinpoint the exact cause of the mutation from food to demonic sludge. People made edible, even tasty, things from weird ingredients all the time. Why Arthur was such an exception had yet to be explained. Hey, that was a perfect book idea. Everyone that knew the man would buy a copy, if not more. Scientists would be intrigued, chefs would be horrified, and underground alchemists and so called magic users would be thrilled. That was a diverse fan base in Alfred's opinion.

Of course, the book idea was just a distraction from what he knew was coming. There was no way he could escape whatever it was that was going to be put in his dish. If the fact that a cat, finicky or not, would not eat his food did not make the man cry, what would? As such, it was unavoidable, which led to Alfred being torn between watching and hiding. He did not really want to see what was all going into his meal, an almost ignorance is bliss sentiment, but he did not really want to leave Arthur alone either. Who knows what the man would do, and Alfred would not be all the surprised if he accidently fell into his own portal to Hell one day. It was not that the man was particularly clumsy or a bad person, but cooking really did bring out the worst in him all the way around.

Mustering up what little bit of courage he had, Alfred stayed put beside his bowl dutifully as Arthur carried on with his archaic practices. He held his place throughout the entire event, opening his eyes only from time to time and regretting it each one. Before even halfway through his poor nose was already being assaulted, and it just grew worse by the end. Alfred could barely make himself open his eyes in time to see the—oh, he had been right about the sludge, going into his bowl. He could actually see the dark aura around it, and he was not a believer in supernatural things. Then again, he was also a cat. Did reincarnation count as supernatural? Food for thought. Either way, he had already died once, he could take this. It was not like he had not grown up eating this stuff. It had actually made him immune to several toxins, he had found out. Of course, those were stories he would never even breathe in his father's direction. Hopefully he still had the same immunity.

It was as dreadful as he remembered and more, worse still since he was under the expectant eyes of his father. He had always tried to ignore his gaze, but just like most other times, it was impossible. With each bite he tried to chew as little as he could, and being that it was sludge, a few bites went down whole. The whole time he kept trying to think positive things about the meal, namely by comparing it to cat food. He had learned that how a meal tasted did have a major mental component, and what you expected did influence it. So, positive thing number one: he could actually taste it. Crunchy air, he could not. Positive thing number two: he did not really have to chew it, so it was not the same boring texture. Positive thing number three: he was making someone very happy by doing this. Positive thing number four: he was atoning for his past life's sins. Positive thing number five: he would be going into a coma for at least the rest of the day after this, so it worked better than sleeping pills. He drew a blank after number five, but thankfully he was almost through it. One last swallow, and he was a free cat.

Alfred meowed sleepily. The sludge lodged in his stomach was already seeping into his bloodstream and taking affect. He meowed again, even deeper with a yawn as he saw the amused look on Arthur's face. In fact, he saw it in threes because the world was beginning to spin. He needed to sleep now and even the floor next to his bowl was looking like a viable option. He would have preferred to take Arthur's pillow on his bed as compensation, but stairs and jumping did not seem so appealing at the moment. Before he even realized what was going on, he felt warm arms wrap around him.

"Come now, Hero. You look as if you are about to fall over asleep any second." Arthur whispered softly with a bit of an affectionate chuckle.

Fair statement.

"The floor is not a proper place to sleep." he continued, starting to walk forward.

Alfred knew that they were moving. As to where, he was not so sure. Every time he tried to look around the world seemed to spin faster just to spite him and his nausea was biting at him with each rotation. In the end, he just decided to bury his face into the man's chest. Note to self, no sudden movements. Toxins affected people based on their body mass, he remembered, and he had lost much of his in recent years. Nevertheless, he could not remember whether or not he had been affected the badly in the past, even as a cat, and that was not a good sign.

It took a while after the movement stopped for the world to spin slow enough to allow him to realize where he was: Arthur's bed. He had been placed on the once more pristine covers and left alone by the man that was probably going back to his study barely several feet away. Alfred could not help but huff at him. He did not need his pity, but his pillow was another story entirely. He would wake up early the next morning and rub cat hair all over his bed if Arthur was still in his study, just you wait, even if his deadline was tomorrow. Wait, his deadline. That meant the editor was coming over. Just great. Alfred could not even complain anymore as the demonic, black sludge started seeping into his brain from his bloodstream. Slowly it overtook everything, his thoughts and sight. He could not even tell if his eyes were open anymore. And then he consciousness was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

To Start Again

Chapter 3, The Editor's Visit

The sweater. It was the first thing that he noticed when he returned to the word of the living. He had actually slept in the sweater. That was the power of the demonic, black sludge. Not only had it affected him so much that he slept in the feline equivalent of a strait jacket, but he had been so terrified by the prospect of eating it that he had forgotten about the sweater long before. Arthur's cooking skills were truly something to be feared. Speaking of Arthur, it looked like he was going to be getting his bed back furry because the alarm clock had the blaring red inscription "8:41 AM" painted on its face. It looked demonic in its own right, shrouded in the dark room with only its red glow. Alfred really wanted to forget about demonic things right about now. For one, his head really hurt, worse than any hangover. It was not like he never drank before, even if the drinking age was technically twenty one. If there was a will, there was most definitely a way. Not that Arthur had any business knowing. Another thing that was really bothering him, though, was that he could hear chattering, and not the birds, either… The editor!

Without a moment spared, Alfred sprinted off the bed and out into the hallway. Just like he had expected, that woman was standing in the doorway of Arthur's study, dressed in the same uptight manner that she always did. He spared a look at her black heels, remembering an occasion that she had stepped on his tail. The only reason she had apologized was because Arthur freaked out, not because he was in pain from almost losing a part of his spine or anything. He would like to get some fur on her if he could. If he was lucky, she would develop an allergy to it, or technically the dander. Although that and mauling her were tempting options, he still had to figure out how bad off his father was. As such, it was best to play nice for the time being.

"Oh, look what the cat dragged in." she chuckled dryly, watching Alfred's every move as he shifted into the study.

He returned the favor, eyes especially on her shoes.

"Good morning, Hero." Arthur greeted, oblivious as usual to the exact level of animosity between the two, "I hope you slept well."

Alfred snorted. He slept as well as any other comatose cat, but Arthur could not even say that much. As Alfred had feared, he had apparently stayed up all not again, and he really did look it. His black rimmed glasses were barely hanging on his nose, his hair was even more ruffled than usual if that was possible, and he had yet to change clothes that day. Alfred doubted he had eaten either and he did not even want to mention the dark bags under the man's usually emerald eyes. They looked like cloudy green today. All the while, he knew the editor had not said one word either in concern or simply on his appearance. What good was she?

"So is it done?" the woman asked, still in the doorway.

Apparently Alfred had caught them early.

"Ah, yes." Arthur stated, "But I still need a moment to do some final editing if you would. Please make yourself at home."

The editor merely nodded, seemingly not too perturbed. Alfred had a feeling that Arthur was one of her most prompt authors. He was for his former editor. Alfred could not remember his name, but he had liked the guy as seldom as they had met. This new woman, whose name he still did not know, had become acquainted with his father in his absence. If he had still been human he would have told her off a time or two for her utter disregard for peoples' wellbeing. Artist or not, Arthur still needed to take care of himself and he knew very well that his last editor had always been concerned about that—and there had not been nearly the issue that there was now. Arthur had been the one harassing Alfred about taking care of himself then. He always had, even at the most hypocritical moments, put Alfred first in that regard. Of course, as said, he was far more put together then in general. It was so frustrating. Arthur had always accused Alfred of being a man of extremes, but clearly he did not take a look in the mirror very often.

Just remembering was taking a toll on Alfred's nerves, so he decided it was best to put some space between himself and Arthur. He really had the worst luck, because the editor was apparently getting bored with study as well. He made sure to put some distance between himself and her, but he could not resist keeping an eye on her all the same. He just had a bad feeling about letting her roam around the house as she pleased. Usually Arthur would hand her whatever it was she wanted and she was gone, in and out. Neither of them had much of a clue what she would do otherwise: politely wait, snoop, or any other number of things. Arthur liked his privacy, sure, but he was not the one that had something against this editor. That was Alfred, so it fell on him to watch her.

Alfred's heart stopped the moment she gravitated to one of the rooms. It was his room. Both his and Arthur's bedrooms were in the same cluster to one side as his study on the second floor, a useful design plan when Alfred had been a child. It quickly turned into a pain in his teenage years and only fueled their bickering. Alfred, turn the music down! Alfred, stop all that beating and banging! Alfred, are you doing your homework!? Alfred, is your room clean!? Alfred, do you have anybody in there with you?! You better not be sneaking out, young man! Enough was enough! No wonder he snapped. He could still feel the resentment those words cultivated. But things had changed since then.

For one, he had not been back in his room for five years. In utter honesty, he was surprised his father had not boarded it up. If he could not even handle pictures, then that room was beyond off limits. In fact, that was the very reason it had been Alfred's ultimate goal his first year living back here. If any room had a chance of having an open window, his did. Knowing the way his father was, chances were that the window was still open from the day he left. It had been a bittersweet realization. It promised freedom once more, but then again it was still saddening to think that his father might just be holding out the hope that he would slip back in one night like it had never happened.

As emotional as this all was, his thoughts continued to be disturbed as that woman came ever closer to his door. She had already seen him in what may have very well been the ugliest sweater ever made, she did not deserve to go through his room as well! Apparently his thoughts were not nearly menacing enough because she actually opened the door. Alfred's heart nearly gave out right there and then, from both disbelief and envy. Why had it been so easy for her!?

"Does this look alright?" Arthur called from his study, snapping some sense into his editor who quickly went to join him, leaving the door cracked.

Alfred could not believe his luck, good or bad. Here was his door, finally open and ready for him to go in. He simply could not help himself and he wasted no time in barging in. The first thing that hit him had to be the smell. Every location had its distinct scent, especially places where people lived, and Alfred's room had always smelled differently from the rest of the house. It was a hard scent to describe, most were, but hints of woodlands, the bay, leather, fabric softener, and junk food could be picked out. Alfred could not possibly put into words how foreign this scent had become and how much of a toll that realization took on him. Once he finally got over that he moved on to assessing the space with his eyes.

It really made him want to smile. The wooden floor was still cluttered with comics and various toys, much the same way that his desk was with books and scribbled on notepads. Despite what everyone believed, this was a clean clutter. All these things served a purpose. He had always threw away his trash and put his dirty clothes in the hamper. His star spangled bed, he had always been rather patriotic as an Independence Day baby, was still in shambles. Really, what was the purpose of making his bed when he was just going to sleep in it again that night? Besides, bacteria grew better in made beds because they preserved the body heat longer than unmade ones. All his posters were still spackled all over the blue walls, ranging from singers and bands to science pieces. He really had been such a complex person.

That was when it caught his eye. His flamboyantly red curtains wafting in the wind coming from the window they framed, the open window they framed. He knew that window well. It was the same one that he always used to sneak out since it had roofing under it and a drain pipe nearby. He could either climb higher or go down the pipe all the way to the ground, depending on his mood. Arthur had threatened to have bars installed on it so many times it was not even funny, and yet it was the same window he left from when he never came back. Alfred could only imagine how many times he must have berated himself for not following up on his threat.

Alfred stilled and sat squarely in the middle of his room. It was one thing that was still his, no matter what. Imposter or not, Arthur gave up his claim on this room long ago and that was why no one could enter it, because even if it was not his he still protected it and the hope that he could one day put those bars on the window and trap the boy like he should have so long ago. Alfred was not quite sure how he felt about that, and he was not quite sure how he felt about not knowing how he felt on that matter. Five years ago he would have been horrified and promptly would have darted out that window yet again, but what about now?

Right now, he honestly did not know. A part of him certainly wanted to run and scale those curtains to obtain the freedom that he knew tasted so sweet. To finally make friends with the neighboring cats and relive his adventures in the woods and around the bay that he had only been able to dream of lately. Another part, however, did not. It wanted to stay and try to make up what he had done to his father for more than the five that he had been away. Another part still said that he did not deserve the freedom anymore. He had lost it when he had died, and he was put back on this Earth for one purpose and one purpose alone. He was to atone for his sins whether he wanted to or not, the price of the ambrosial freedom that had tasted so sublimely and he had admittedly became addicted to.

No matter how he thought about it, the quarrel in his brain had a clear winner, even if the losing side could never be silenced. He supposed that side was the source of his inner demons, though he could honestly see it in both. Before he could change his mind, he left his room. He left the open window. And he even closed the door behind him without looking back once. The moment the door was shut firmly behind him he wanted to vomit. Just what had he done? He had spent his whole first year just trying to get that one chance, and even in his second year, when he decided to atone, he had not given up on the possibility. And now, now he had just given all of that away, for what? For duty? For honor? For love? He did not even know. Maybe he should have killed himself when he first became a cat. He certainly was not the same Alfred anymore, the man that at least knew his own morals, emotions, and reasons. He had none of that certainty anymore, and turning into a cat should not have messed with something so fine-tuned. For the first time in his life, he could have very well hated himself, but how would he know? He did not know much of anything anymore, after all.

"Thank you for your hard work, Arthur. I look forward to your next chapter."

Alfred did not even notice as the editor spoke and walked by him, her eyes on the cat the entire time. They showed what? Suspicion? Worry? Whatever it was, it was gone as soon as it was there and she was on her way, papers in hand.

"Now that that is over, do you want to get something to eat—H-Hero?" Arthur questioned tentatively, approaching the feline sitting in front of—of _his _door.

Arthur shook his with all of his might. He had no time to be thinking about something like that. He got a little closer and when no recognition passed in Hero's blue eyes he felt his hysteria rising. He began to notice that the cat that had been the liveliest thing in his life for three whole years now had dull eyes where they were once a luminescent, defiant sky blue. Just like—NO!

"H-Hero, I'm sorry I left you in the sweater for s-so long." Arthur apologized with a nervous chuckle, "Let me get that off of you right away."

He wasted no time in removing the fabric from Hero's body, "See, as good as new!"

His forced cheerfulness faded the moment he realized that had not been the problem. Hero still sat there, staring. Not at him, or anything, but blankly with his dull eyes. Arthur almost broke right then and there, reaching down with his hand to pet the cat that had grown so near and dear to him only to pull it away at the last second. Hero did not so much as fidget. Arthur honestly could not even tell if he was breathing. Was he breathing? Arthur certainly did not know!

"H-Hero, stop playing around, okay. I cannot handle this today!" Arthur cried, finally losing it enough to shake Hero by the shoulder.

The cat stiffly fell over, in much the same position as he had been sitting, almost as if he had been a mere glass figure. That was the last straw. Arthur snatched Hero up and darted downstairs, narrowly grabbing his keys and finishing his sprint to the car. All the while, he muttered various cries for Hero to be okay and to stop playing. One thing was one his mind: getting to the vet. He did not care what he had to do to get there, be it all the traffic laws he would break when emotionally compromised people were not supposed to drive at all or the fines he would be paying later. He was _not_ going to lose Hero like the boy he was named after and that he reminded him so much of.


	4. Chapter 4

To Start Again

Chapter 4, "Happy"

Things were not going well with Hero. After the death defying drive to the vet, he had passed the inspection with a clean bill of health. However, even he could tell a difference in the usually spunky cat. Hero had built up quite a reputation as a difficult customer, the type that had to be dealt with while wearing _thick_ gloves if he was riled up. That very cat had not only not made a sound the whole checkup, but he had been as limp and moveable as a doll. Arthur had been terrified and the vet rightly disturbed. Nevertheless, he was healthy, at least physically, and the odd behavior had only started that day. The vet gave Arthur two options: either he would have to take Hero home, monitor him, and have another appointment tomorrow or he could leave Hero overnight. Arthur's first impulse was to take him home, but the vet had been leaning towards the latter option and it did not take much coercion to convince Arthur to change his mind. Actually getting the man to leave after signing away his cat had been a whole other matter entirely, though.

The next day Arthur had been there the moment the clinic opened, earlier than the vet in fact. It did not take much to see that the man had not had any sleep, little did they know that he had not for several days. Still, it was enough for them to realize that it might not have been the best idea to keep Hero there unless his life was on the line, strange behavior or not. In fact, in the vet's opinion, Hero had gotten a little better. A little. He was no longer as limp as a doll or as stiff as a glass figure, but he would not speak, move around very much, or eat without coaxing, and that was only after he had been force fed once. The vet felt better than ever before about his original diagnosis: depression. Normally, he would not have been so quick to prescribe anti-depressants as he had with Hero, but he felt better about treating him as a special case after observing him in the clinic.

Now, Hero merely laid on the living room couch, staring blankly with his dull eyes after Arthur took him home. The man was still horrified by his cat's behavior, and even more so by the fact that he did not know what caused it. Had he not paid him enough attention? Missed one too many feedings? Was he just tired of Arthur? These thoughts and so many more set his mind reeling. At this rate, Hero was going to be the death of him. The vet had showed him how to force feed his pet the anti-depressants and Hero was now on a strict schedule of them, but he was highly encouraged to try different things around the house to make Hero more comfortable to see if that helped. Since Arthur really had no clue where to start with that, he spent much of the time on his laptop searching for a feline therapist, psychologist, behaviorist—Whatever they wanted to call themselves. The point was that he was looking for one that he could get to come to his house as fast as possible, because he could not concentrate on anything with his ailing cat. In fact, he could not even take his eyes off him, which was why he was doing this searching in the living while he sat on the lounge chair across from the suffering feline.

When Arthur could take no more of merely watching, because he could not tear his anxious eyes away, he pushed his laptop aside and took a seat beside the cat. Hero did not so much as shift. Arthur reached out his hand once more to run it through his snow white fur, but he could not go through with it. Arthur had been slightly traumatized by how Hero had just fallen over the previous day, but a large part of it was because he had not been very successful with cheering people up in the past. The only people he really had any success with disappeared around the time that he stopped having that effect. He did not even want to find out if it would be the same with Hero, cat or not, and it held him in check.

"What happened to you, lad?" Arthur asked softly, still wanting more than anything to run his hand through Hero's fur, "I haven't the slightest clue why you would be upset. Nothing new happened yesterday. May editor has been here plenty of times before, even if you two had not exactly gotten along. You at least never acted like _this_."

Hero did not stir, and while Arthur had not expected that he would, it still hurt all the same.

"What I would give for you to be able to tell me what was the matter…" Arthur murmured.

It may have been Arthur's imagination, but he thought that he saw Hero's ear twitch at the words. It gave him a little hope that would probably cause more trouble than it was worth, but he was happy to have it nonetheless.

"I have not brushed you in a while, have I?" Arthur considered aloud, "Just a moment."

It was not necessarily an attempt to comfort his cat, but Hero's depression was certainly not a reason for him to be neglected. His long fur needed regular brushing, especially when he was shedding. Still, Arthur was more than happy to be able to do something kind for Hero. As much as he did not like to admit it, he knew exactly what Hero was going through because there had been a time when he had battled depression himself. Numerous times in all actuality, and he had an emergency stash of anti-depressants that he honestly should have been taking all along. He had not needed them when he had first become a father, and taking them for any reason afterwards did not sit well with him. He had actually tried, not long after he had lost his son, but taking them made him feel worse than he had without them. Besides, he never would have let that boy know that he had ever had to take anything like that, not now, not ever. Regardless, he still knew how it was and in his opinion it was the worst when it first began, so Hero needed all the help he could get.

In moments, Arthur was back on the couch with Hero's brush, "You were always so fickle when it came to this. I know you liked it, but you always insisted that I merely hold it and let you brush yourself. But I suppose you are not going to struggle today, now are you?"

Arthur secretly hoped he would when he began to take the brush and glide it across his fur. The photographer had been right. Hero had always had such beautiful fur, but his eyes were the real gems. It had been his eyes that made sure that Arthur could not pass him up, while his fur had made sure that he kept up with the cleaning. He supposed that he would be in quite a different state right now if he had not gotten Hero those three years ago. The two years without him had been more of a nightmare than Arthur cared to think about. He would gladly show how thankful his was to the cat if he had any idea how, but the best that he could think of was not to give up on him. After all, someone had to believe in Hero, even if he did not believe in himself right now.

As Arthur's brushstrokes drew to an end, he could not help himself, "I know I am not very good at this, I never have been, but you have to know that I at least believe you can get over whatever it is that is bothering you."

"You are such an idiot sometimes, Artie, talking like a cat could actually answer you."

His emerald eyes widened when Hero meowed, turning his head to meet Arthur's gaze with the first shimmer he had in his eyes in a long time. Naturally, it lasted for a mere moment. A blissful one that nourished that troublesome shard of hope that Arthur had. Maybe Hero had understood him after all. Even if he had only understood the feeling behind the words and not the words themselves it was still something amazing, and despite the excitement it gave him, it was namely comfort that he received. Said comfort he quickly realized he could do without, because with it came his natural human needs. Now that he was no longer on high alert, he needed some sleep, posthaste. Even when he got to the point that he could not fight it any longer, he could not bring himself to abandon his post.

In one swift movement he shifted Hero into his arms and started to make his way up to his bedroom sleepily. It almost got to the point that he was surprised that he made it there unscathed, but he had with Hero in tow. It was all a practiced routine by now: Arthur placing Hero down first and then shifting the covers so that he could get under them and Hero could choose whatever place he felt most comfortable afterwards. He had well learned by now that the cat had an affinity for his pillow and if he did not rest his head upon it first thing either he would not get it or it would have a furry barrier. At that moment, even in his growing daze, he had half the mind to let Hero have it, but decided that may have been crossing the line into pity. Cats were prideful creatures, and as unpredictable as his clearly was, the last thing he wanted to do was upset him further. Arthur was more than a little pleased that Hero had curled up right next to him when it was all said and done. Sometimes the cat would choose to sleep at the foot of the bed all by himself and at others he would even get under the covers with Arthur, but he chose a happy medium right then and it made it even easier for Arthur to fall asleep with him by his side.

It was only once Arthur's breathing had evened out and Alfred knew he was asleep did he move to get a better look at his father. He had really not meant to be so dramatic, but it was not simply all drama to him and he certainly was not done sulking yet. He had given up the opportunity of his feline life, after all. It was different from things like dying and turning into a cat. Those had basically been unavoidable, but he finally had what he had wanted for years right in his paws and he gave it up—and did not even know why. Alfred would not have been nearly so bitter if he actually knew why he did what he did. What was worse is that he doubted that he would figure out the reason any time soon. Did that mean he just had to wait it out? He doubted he could handle that, quite frankly, or that Arthur could either.

"You know," Alfred mused, "You weren't as bad as you think you were at the whole comforting thing. You cheered me up plenty of times when I was a kid, and even when I grew older I normally felt at least a little better—Even if you would have to pull teeth to get me to admit it, even now."

Arthur did not stir and it brought a slight feline grin to Alfred's face. He was a cat, of course Arthur was not supposed to understand a thing he said. Despite that, he still had to wait until he knew the man was asleep to say anything. Once the full realization hit him the grin, as slight as it was, faded away. Maybe this man still had more power over him than he had realized. Alfred had always hated that, how he would bend without even noticing it at times. It just fueled his frustration whenever he caught himself. He was his own person with his own thoughts and ideas, why did he have to submit just because they conflicted with someone else's, no matter who that someone was? Alfred could not help but soften. It was not exactly Arthur's fault either, at least not all of the time. He sighed. They sure were a dysfunctional pair, though he supposed they had always been. He supposed that if he was going to help Arthur move on he would at least have to fix that with his feline relationship. Then again, first thing was first. If he was going to fix anything he had to start with himself, and not swallowing those "happy" pills seemed like a good start.


End file.
